Australias Great War

We flew every moment that the sky was clear. But good flying weather for us was good flying weather for the other side. Our job was to notice artillery placement or troop trains or places on the line where soldiers assembled to attack. The German scouts’ job was to stop us.

They were very good at it. They patrolled in packs called Jagdgeschwader—hunting squads—though the Brits dubbed them ‘flying circuses’. They sure put on a good show, I’ll give them that. Colour, gamesmanship, daring, skill—they had it all. They flew fast fighting craft like the latest model Albatros or Fokker, streaking across the sky in tight formation, and then darting out of the sunset or clouds to pounce on unsuspecting mice like me. Some of their aircraft were even painted bright yellow or blue, with pink and grey camouflage spattered under each wing. If I hadn’t been desperately trying to avoid them, I could have watched them fly for hours.

The greatest of them was the Red Baron, Von Richtofen, the deadliest ace on the Front, and famous all over the world. Just before Charlie and I arrived, he’d shot down twenty-one of our planes in a single month. And now we were right in his firing line.

‘Just let me get him in my sights,’ said Charlie. ‘He won’t know what’s hit him.’

‘If you’re lucky,’ said Burke, ‘you’ll never even catch a glimpse of one of those red planes.’

‘Tell that to Richtofen,’ said Charlie. ‘I read in the newspaper that he gets a little silver trophy made up for each plane he shoots down.’

The idea made my stomach curdle. ‘That’s horrible,’ I said. ‘Those are men he shot down. Human beings. Not machines.’

‘It’s easier to think of them as machines,’ said Burke. Sorrow rippled across his face. ‘Believe me.’

I clenched my hands into tight fists. My fingers trembled all the time since that first fight, and I hadn’t even fired my gun. It was all I could do to keep the plane in the air and out of trouble. Part of me never wanted to go through that again, and the rest of me knew that I had to, every day, for the rest of the war or until someone like the Red Baron notched me up as another trophy.

Richtofen scared the hell out of me. But I kept flying. I learned how to scan the sky in every direction, take photographs of the ground, look out for the flash of an artillery battery, send Morse code signals back to base, and fly the machine, all at the same time. I grew to trust that Burke was always watchful, keeping me safe while I went about the real work of the squadron. It was meticulous, urgent, heart-stoppingly dangerous work. There’s no way months of training could really prepare you for the feeling of it. Or the speed of it.

The ground troops were slugging it out in another desperate push out along the Menin Road in front of Ypres. Our orders were clear. Fly low and spy on the Germans. Report anything and everything. Keep out of trouble. Shoot anyone that tries to stop you. And then do it all again the next day.

But if it was misty, or raining, or too windy, we didn’t go up. Low cloud or rain meant we couldn’t take clear photos, and fuzzy pictures were no use to anyone, so we were grounded. I shouldn’t admit this, but sometimes I’d peek out the window of the hut in the morning and sigh with relief.

There was plenty to do on the ground. Some of the other pilots drove to town for lunch or a game of tennis, as if they weren’t in the middle of a war. Charlie sat about fidgeting.

‘It might clear up later.’ I pointed to the low grey clouds, threatening summer squalls at any moment. Even weather was different in Flanders. I remembered the hot dry summers back home—nights waiting for a cool change, trying to sleep with mosquitoes buzzing around the fly netting, sunburn and lemonade and playing cricket in bare feet. Bushfire smoke and eucalyptus oil in the air, instead of the smell of damp uniforms and fumes from distant high explosives.

‘Why didn’t I get posted to Palestine?’ Charlie said. ‘It never rains there. Those chaps in 1 Squadron probably fly every day.’

Then they’re probably half-dead with exhaustion, I thought to myself. Or actually dead.

‘It’s hot as Hades there,’ I said. ‘Imagine. My cousin Tom’s in the Light Horse over there and he reckons every day on patrol is like being some old time explorer, lost in the inland.’

‘Sounds like hard work,’ I said. ‘Tom’s only written once or twice but he’s always grumbling about the heat and the dust.’

‘Anywhere would be better than here.’ Charlie turned his face away and sighed.

A few chaps were like Charlie: always looking for trouble in the skies, like restless dogs barking at every noise. His pilot, Grady, was the same. They were well matched. I couldn’t tell if they were very brave or very frightened. They snapped at each other, paced up and down, argued with the Flight Sergeant about the weather, and checked their watches every half hour.

Not me. I spent the slow days in the workshop, patching up my own aircraft (now known to everyone as Matilda) or helping out with one of the others. Some of the ground crew were like us, Australians or New Zealanders loaned out to give the Brits a hand. We banded together, shared a cuppa or two, sat around the brazier swapping stories. One of the armourers, Len, was an Aboriginal bloke from up Healesville way. He told me that he and his brother had to pretend to be Maori to enlist.

‘We were desperate to sign up, but the local recruiters kept saying they didn’t want us,’ he said. ‘So we went into the city and fooled them easily. Now I’m just as desperate to get home.’

‘Killed,’ he said. ‘Last year. Somewhere south of here. Place called Fromelles.’

Len and I spent all our tea breaks together. I knew about planes, but he knew more about all kinds of machines than anybody I ever met. In the few years since the war started, so many new inventions had rolled out into the war zone: flying machines, and updated models of weapons that shoot bullets so fast they’re even called machine guns, and tanks and Zeppelins and trench mortars and enormous cannon that fired all sorts of powerful explosives.

‘Did you ever dream there were so many ways to kill people?’ said Len. ‘I don’t reckon there’s ever been so many machines made or used in one place at the same time— ever in the world.’

I reckon he was right. Every few months there was a new model plane, or an advance in tank warfare (which was just as well, said Len, because the first few were hopeless), or some new horror like gas or flame throwers or grenades that bounced. Since there were aircraft, somebody invented anti-aircraft guns. Since the trenches were covered with wire, somebody invented tanks to drive over the trenches and crush the wire. Because the trenches were so close, somebody invented bombs you could detonate and throw across No Man’s Land. People were smart. They had to be. It was brilliant, in one way, but also deadly.

The war was like one great big machine, Len said. We were all tiny parts in it, along with railways and trucks and weapons. It would just grind on, like one of those automatons that you wind up so it walks or plays the drums on and on until it falls over.

For me, those quiet hours in the workshop were just the ticket. After each flight, every plane was checked over: the fitters cleaned the engine and soaked the carburettor in petrol; the riggers pored over the wires, struts and canvas. Len stripped down all the guns and put them back together again. He didn’t seem to mind doing it over and over, and seeing him in his tiny circle of lamplight was like watching a master craftsman at work, bent over the bench, machining new components and cleaning every tiny piece. If the guns jammed during a fight, the crew would be helpless. We all trusted Len with our lives. Every day. He was the best shot in the squadron, but the Corps still wouldn’t let him in a plane. Fools. Still, he reckoned he was better off on the ground.

In the air, everything was chaos. Even when we didn’t get jumped by enemy planes, there were shells whistling past, heading both ways, and anti-aircraft batteries firing at us. But in the workshop, we scavenged spare parts, mended frayed fabric and bullet holes, and replaced shattered timber. Got covered in oil. There were problems to find and solve. Repairs to make. It was methodical, focused, and intense. There was always something to do, to keep my hands busy and stop me from thinking too much.

None of us wanted to think about what we’d seen or what we’d done. None of us wanted to dwell on what might happen tomorrow.

July, 1917

7 Squadron,

Royal Flying Corps

Proven, Belgium

There’s a whole other world up in the sky, Mags. I never knew. I suppose, in peacetime, it’s full of swallows and bees and all those dandelion seeds we blew into the wind. I wouldn’t know. But here it’s full of different birds. Dangerous ones, like the German Albatros fighters.

There are balloons that look like enormous saggy elephants. They’re tethered to the ground with dozens of ropes, and some poor mug dangling below in a glorified shopping basket, hoping not to get shot at. Rotten job. It’s not like they can fly off if they get attacked. They just have to sit there. Or jump, I suppose. Either way, they’re dead ducks.

Around here, if you don’t have any high ground, you have to send somebody up in the air to have a look or take a photograph. It’s either us, or the balloon chaps. Or both.

When we take off, and climb a bit, we’re in another world. We do see real birds sometimes, crows mostly, and treetops and roofs, and clouds of all shapes and sizes. Once we saw a rainbow, and I was tempted to chase it to the end. It seemed almost as if I could.

There’s no sound around us, but the machine makes its own ruckus—the engine thumps and whirrs (hopefully more whirring than thumping), the wires squeal in the wind, our scarves and clothes flap, the fuselage quivers, and we can barely hear one another shout over it all. Once Burke had to fire off a few rounds just to get my attention.

Even now it’s chilly up there. I hate to think what it’ll be like in winter. So thank you, and thank Ma and especially Flossie, for the wonderful socks and mittens. Charlie was green with envy. I fly with my little good luck kangaroo tucked into my top pocket. I’m going to get one of the fellows in the workshop to paint a kangaroo on Matilda too, so everyone who sees us up in the sky knows that it’s us flying there, all the way from the other side of the world, doing our bit.

Yours truly,

(Also if Ma could send one of her legendary fruit cakes, that would make me the most popular chap in the Officers’ Mess. I have been boasting about them.)